


go off to sleep in the sunshine

by portions_forfox



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portions_forfox/pseuds/portions_forfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis’ voice is softer in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go off to sleep in the sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at one_d_fanwork @ lj.

On Monday morning Liam’s up the earliest, which really should come as no surprise. He pops his head into Harry and Louis’ room (they haven’t got two beds this time, and if they did Liam’s sure one of those beds would remain lonely as ever), and finds that Harry’s allowed Lou the courtesy of clothing—he’s clad in exactly one tight pair of briefs, as opposed to nothing at all. They’re a funny pair in sleep, those two—both of them taking up as much of the bed as physically possible, tired dogs sprawled out with all their limbs extended—and yet somehow they remain compatible. Comfortable; inexplicably entangled.

“Just popping out for some juice,” Liam tells them, just in case they worry (they won’t, but liam tells them all the same). Harry, the fat lard, doesn’t even twitch a toe, just lays there drooling and snoring, probably. But Louis sits up slowly (Harry may as well be a dead body for how bonelessly his arm slides off Louis’ chest and plunk onto the mattress), rubs at his eyes with the palm of his hand and squints at the window. Liam finds it a bit odd to see him this way, so unlike his usual high-strung self. Different in the morning. 

“Hold on just a sec, I’ll come with you,” Louis drawls softly, and Liam can tell he’s still gathering up his consciousness in little scraps of daylight. He blinks and slips his legs out from under the covers, sets his feet on the floor and sits still for just a second before standing up. Liam’s quiet, doesn't bother. He’s good at that.

“Lemme just brush my teeth real quick, I’ll be right out,” Louis promises, and the smile he flicks Liam’s way is small and tired. The foreignness of it all gives Liam the somewhat disconcerting feeling that he knows louis either far too well or not at all.

When Louis comes out of the bathroom and meets Liam waiting in the hall, he’s bouncing off the walls again, bumping Liam’s hip as they walk and winking rather blatantly at a pretty girl who passes them on the way to the elevator.

Liam gives him this, gives him the gift of his silence. It’s a gift he’s learned to give quite well.

Louis’ voice was softer in the morning. Liam wonders, only briefly, if this is the Louis that Harry wakes up to every day.

 

 

On their way back from the corner store the sun starts to shine a little brighter over the gray city skyline, and louis starts to skip.

“It’s a _marvelous_ means of travel, Payne, you should try it,” Louis grins, turning his trot into a skip-spin hybrid, head and arms turned up towards the sky as he twirls and dances ahead.

“Seriously mate, you’ve got to stop doing that, you’ll draw attention to yourself,” Liam warns, simultaneously chuckling and scanning the block for paps.

“See, that’s your problem,” Louis says, and suddenly he’s very, very close to liam, his lips brushing against Liam’s ear as he whispers and his arm shifting by to link with his. “You don’t know how to be selfish.” Liam tries not to stiffen as one of Louis’ hands snakes up to sift through the hairs at the nape of his neck. “It’s a lovely feeling, selfishness—go ahead, Liam—draw attention to yourself.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Louis laughs, low and soft, and if Liam glanced his way, which he doesn’t, he’d see tiny crinkling lines form round the crowns of Louis’ eyes. “Try _not caring_ for a second, I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.” But Liam doesn’t really have the chance to make a conscious effort, because before he knows it two girls who look about their age are winding up the street, and he realizes with a sudden pang of dread that Louis’ not going to move his hand, definitely—definitely not, is he.

The girls are coming closer and Louis’ rib cage is still practically fused with Liam’s, and his fingers are still tickling the base of his neck, and oh god the girls are almost to them now and—

“Ladies,” Louis greets them with a cordial nod, and they break into a fit of giggles, scurrying past and whispering frantically into each others’ ears.

“See?” laughs Louis, dropping his hands and resuming his spin-skip-walk. “How hard was that?”

“Very,” Liam grunts, rubbing at the back of his neck (where Louis’ hand had been, where just seconds ago Louis’ fingers had sent the tiniest of unmeaning shivers reverberating down his spine). “Very hard.”

“Oh, Payne,” Louis sighs, and he stops a few yards ahead but doesn’t look at Liam. His hands go to his hips, his head tilts up to the sky and he huffs out a long, slow breath. “Live a little.”

 

 

By the time they get back to their hotel everyone’s started to get up. Niall’s already shot downstairs (“Free continental breakfast, lads. Free. Continental. Breakfast.”), Zayn’s already snuck a smoke out on the balcony (Liam can smell it on his breath; reminds himself to give Zayn a good long talking-to for it later), and Harry’s getting tea at the hotel restaurant.

And squirming in their single booth for breakfast, crowded in as usual, Liam can see Harry watching Louis as he speaks. They’re next to each other (they’re neve _not_ next to each other, and Liam’s not one to use a double negative so lightly), and Niall’s too busy eating to notice and Zayn, god bless him, is still mostly asleep, so it’s only Liam who sees Harry shift his arm a little closer on the tabletop. Louis doesn’t even stop talking, doesn’t even look away as he tilts his forearm slightly sideways till their skin is just barely brushing. Liam realizes, realizes like a revelation, _they don’t even know they’re doing it_ , and some tiny, bitter part of him stings.

 

 

In an interview they’re asked to assign epithets again. They smile and press on like the question’s the most fucking original thing they’ve ever heard.

Louis usually takes over these sorts of conversations, he’s good at that sort of thing.

“Niall’s cute and Irish,” he asserts, and Niall nods and giggles. “Liam’s sexy and smart,” he goes on, nothing new there, and Harry’s “hot and dangerous” and “Zayn, you’re quiet and mysterious.”

“I actually think _you’re_ quite mysterious, mate,” Zayn shoots back, nodding with as much enthusiasm as he can muster (not much).

This is a wrench in the plan, and even though Zayn probably did it just to fuck with them Louis sits up, smiles a little lopsidedly. “Who, me?” he laughs, _flustered_ almost (because, fuck, Louis’ the only decent actor among them). Zayn laughs back and says, “Yeah, you’re a _mystery_ , man,” and before he can stop himself the words are kind of slipping off Liam’s tongue, “I agree, I think you’re quite the mystery, Lou.”

Suddenly they’re all looking at Liam; pleasantly, yes, but looking at him all the same.

“And why do you say that?” the interviewer teases, and something heavy lurches in Liam’s stomach that makes him want to whir away the words, let them fall from his lips like a harmony, _Louis’ favorite means of travel is skipping_ , or _Louis thinks I ought to live a little_ , or even, even _Louis’ voice is softer in the mornings_.

But instead he mutters, “ ’Cause you’re crazy, mate,” which gets a laugh. Liam pretends not to notice that Louis keeps his eyes trained on him as the subject changes. Smiles a little lopsidedly. Looks away.

 

 

Louis is like the stereotypical heroine in all Liam’s sisters’ girly novels, like, the one who goes skinny-dipping in the river or make whimsical angels in the snow or dance in the rain or whatever. Doesn’t need anyone. Doesn’t know how to be alone. So like, the guy in all the novels doesn’t _understand_ her because she’s so deep and impulsive and free and stuff. But he always falls in love anyway.

 

 

There are these times, these times where some idiot will let Harry and Louis sit next to each other for an interview (if by _next to_ you mean _on top of_ ), and then the whole fucking thing becomes the Larry Stylinson show, sidelong glances that last too long and eyes that turn a shade too dark when they flick to lips and four fingers squeezing the inside of a knee, it’s—it’s unprofessional.

And there are these times, these times where they’ll lean so close—a thousand million eyes to watch them, a thousand million eyes to see, but in that moment, in that tiny sliver of time and space, not even that can stop them—so close they could almost be kissing, but—

But.

There is Eleanor (whom Louis loves; but love is relative, and relative means comparable, and when you compare there’s really no—there isn’t—it’s not the same.)

Louis may not be Eleanor’s, but he isn’t Liam’s either.

Everybody knows they’re together in every sense of the word except that they’re not.

 

 

“So,” Louis says, cocks his lead a little to one side. “I’m a mystery, huh.”

Liam looks down at his shoes, moves one hand to pull on the back of his neck and the other to slide into his pocket. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” says Louis, who’s not looking at him, who’s trailing his hand along the wall of the hotel hallway so it makes a quiet noise, who’s smiling this tiny little smile to himself so small it could almost not be there.

Liam’s not really prepared when it happens. He’s staring at the opposite wall, thinking to himself that maybe these sorts of five-minute walks, these sorts of one-on-one expeditions should come to an end, if he’s going to, if this is going to be a—, when it happens.

Louis pulls away with a loud _mwaa!_ and slaps Liam’s cheeks with both his palms.

Liam blinks. “What did you—why would you—I don’t—”

Louis starts to spin down the hall again, hums a little as he goes. “Because I can,” he says, stops a moment, rephrases: “Because I wanted to.”

“But I’m not...” Liam starts, and he realizes there are a thousand things he could follow that sentence with, a thousand phrases that could theoretically make sense, but only one that does. 

“I know,” says louis, who’s not smiling now, who’s stopped spinning, who’s a goddamn fucking cliché mystery. And the rest of the pieces fall away, and his voice is low and soft when he sighs, “Would it make sense if I said that was kind of the point?”

Liam’s quiet, doesn’t bother. He’s good at that. He nods.

Louis grins too big to be true and yanks Liam forward by the collar of his t-shirt. Whispers, “ _Live a little, Payne_.”


End file.
